


His Valhalla

by syndalicious



Category: Mad Max Series (Movies)
Genre: F/M, Nux Lives
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-18
Updated: 2015-08-18
Packaged: 2018-04-15 08:41:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,484
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4600203
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/syndalicious/pseuds/syndalicious
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Fury Road was treacherous, but the journey to freedom isn't so easily driven. Remember, out here everything hurts, but this time... this time they're all together.</p>
            </blockquote>





	His Valhalla

**Author's Note:**

> Woaah, hey there! So this will be my first foray into the Mad Max fandom! I've written fan fiction before, many moons ago, but this is the first in a while. I do hope you all enjoy reading my version what what's going on after Fury Road! 
> 
> Fang it!

It had been three days since she had witnessed him. Three days since she’d held out her hand, pulling his soul to her heart, watching him turn the war rig into the canyon walls and saving them all.

It had been three days of constant movement, constant information pouring through her brain. Capable didn’t have time to mourn the white faced and scarred war boy. She busied herself with any task she could find and when she felt the hot sting of tears, she would find something else to occupy herself, anything to escape the thought that he was never going to walk back into the Citadel, never going to stare up into the night sky and watch the satellites again.

Capable had known pain. She had known torment. Being one of Joe’s wives had ensured that she had seen her fair share of things that could never be unseen, but loss was still so shiny and new. They had lost Angharad on the Fury Road, but at least she could wander to the woman’s bed, take up her blankets and feel close to her for a moment. With him, she had nothing, nothing that was inexplicably his, nothing to keep his face from fading.

It had been three days since the Fool, Max, had left, too. She saw it in Furiosa’s eyes, their proud Furiosa. She missed his presence beside her, lending his strength to hers. Max was a man of few words, grunting at them more often than not, but he had saved them when he had no need to. Capable missed him, too, but not like she missed him, the war boy who had kept her warm that night out in the big wide salt. The war boy who had held her close, his cheek to her hair, never venturing further than a soft touch or a curious smile. He was one in a million others, a diamond among stones and now he was lost to them. She hoped he’d found his Valhalla, but selfishly prayed to whoever would listen that they spat him back out to her.

 

The fourth day began quiet, the sisters, no longer wives to anyone, starting their day among one another, drinking their fill of the peace they gave each other before taking on the new world of the Citadel. Furiosa sat with them for a precious few moments these mornings, watching over the women who were no long so delicate, so fragile. The Fury Road had changed them all.

A war boy had burst into the vault entrance, the door now ripped off and being utilized somewhere else where it would never lock them away again. The boy, the man, truly, was rushing words to them, but no one could gather his meaning. Furiosa stood, her organic arm reaching out for the man painted in war white, “Speak to me clear. What’s happened?” her voice was bold, commandeering of attention, but soft, forcing him to truly listen to her words.

“Max has returned from the gates of Valhalla with a gift!” he proclaimed, scarred face wide with excitement. Furiosa’s brow furrowed. Max had left without a word, what had brought him back to them?  
“What gift? Where is he?” she removed her hand from the war boy as he backed up, beckoning to them, beckoning to all of them.

“Come, come. They’re fixing them all up. They got all singed and burnt, but the flames of Valhalla cleansed them!” he could stand it no more, he turned and shot back down the hall, pausing only long enough to see that Furiosa and the sisters followed.

 

Since returning to the Citadel, some of what was left of the Many Mothers of the Vuvalini had taken up the duties of the Organic Mechanic. They had knowledge that no one else had ever had and truly fixed and cured, rather than simply buying the sick a few more moments to grasp at life. Whatever wounded gift Max had returned with would surely be with them.

Capable felt the breath tighten in her throat, heard the echo of words she couldn’t understand through muffled ears. She knew what gift she hoped Max had returned with, but surely it was impossible. The Dag had prayed to whatever Gods had been listening once and they had answered, was it too much to think that perhaps they had answered Capable, too?

The organic mechanic’s shop had been scrubbed as clean as it would ever be, fresh linens and bandages, newly made ointments and bottles strewn here or there. It didn’t have much order to it yet, but they were working on it. Max sat in the main room, one of the Vuvalini sewing up a gash in his arm, blood smattered all over him. He was dehydrated and his lips and face chapped from the rough wind and sands. His eyes met with that of the sisters, that of Furiosa. A ghost of a smile passed across his face and he pointed at Capable before jamming a thumb to his right, indicating the entrance way to the hallways of the rest of the shop. Again, her breath hitched and she felt hands on her shoulders, her sister’s delicate touches.

“Go.” Furiosa’s organic hand touched her back then, pushing her from the light grasp of her sisters. She turned to look at them, all soft faces smiling at her, “Go go go” whispered from each. Capable turned and took a few steps that eventually broke into a run. She blew through the entranceway, openings on either side of her. It didn’t take but a second to find what she was looking for, three women and two war pups gathered around a bloodied and burned body. Capable stood in the entrance to the room, eyes wide and hair wild as she waited for words, any instruction as to what she should do. One of the women, another Vuvalini, turned and saw her. She gave a quick, crooked grin, hands too busy to give Capable direction. Instead, she motioned with her whole head for her to enter, to come to them.

She came into the room then, staring and awe struck as she rounded the table and the working women. She moved until she found a spot out of the way, a spot that one of the women nodded for her to be. She didn’t look at his face, not yet. She looked at his body first, the V8 engine scarred into his chest, bloody burns marring it in places. She looked at his hips, his loose cargo pants slung low, ripped and singed. She looked at his feet, both bare and blistered, blood having dripped down his legs from damage unseen. She finally moved to touch him then, to ensure that he was real and that he was here. Her fingers touched painted white skin smeared black and grey from grease and ash. Her eyes scanned over his body once more, taking note of every cut, every burn, every bit of heavy damage he had taken on to protect them. She found his face then, her world quieting though the noise of the women and work never truly stopped. Electric blue eyes, hooded but open, watching her, his scarred lips upturned just enough for her to know he saw her, felt her presence with him. He didn’t speak, but her hands found his and she held him, his fingers giving hers the lightest amount of pressure. He was in there, he wanted her to know that he had followed her.

The women worked and worked, washed, sewed and stitched. Ointments were applied and reapplied when the wounds guzzled it up. Bandages were smoothed over and removed only to be smoothed over him once more. When they finished, he was pink and new again in the places that weren’t covered with bandages or gauze. The pictures and lines scarred into his skin, looking angry in places, but not nearly as angry as the weeping wounds beneath their coverings. The women had finally ceased their ministrations, moving away from him, washing hands and patting the sweat away from their foreheads. One of them laid a hand on Capable’s shoulder, giving her a brief nod.

“He’ll live.” She said words that Capable already knew, his weak fingers clutching hers as he’d sucked in fevered breaths and shook in the agony his sacrifice had given him. Capable had nodded her thanks to the women, the hot tears in her eyes that she still hadn’t let fall. She tried to blink them away, but her face just reddened with emotion and the women took her head in her hand, pressing her forehead to Capable’s. “Take care of him now,” she whispered before leaving the two to their new peace.

 

His breathing was heavy and his eyes now closed, but still he clung to her hand, his anchor in this world. He felt her fingers dance across his arm, check the wrappings that covered his body once those who had helped him left. The pain was constant, but her warm, delicate fingers in his made it bearable. Valhalla had called his name a fourth time and when it had, he’d turned away from the voices. Valhalla was not a place, his Valhalla was a person, a woman with flame red hair and kind eyes. He didn’t regret following her back down the Fury Road, back to the Citadel. The pain was excruciating, but he’d lived a life of pain. Whatever happened now, he felt those fingers in his. He would endure.

 

The wives- the sisters, they had retreated long ago. There was work to be done. Furiosa had stayed as long as she was able, checking Max’s damages herself once he was wrapped up right and cleaned. She’d asked him if he’d gone out to find the war boy that had ensured their survival. Max only gave a shrug of his shoulder, wincing when he did. Furiosa hadn’t known him long, but his silence spoke volumes to her. She’d nodded, her organic hand pressed against his heart for a moment.

“I hope you stay,” her thanks for returning the young war boy to Capable and the rest of them heard as an unspoken whisper. Max grunted in response, promising nothing. With a nod, Furiosa had retreated, leaving him with his wounds and his thoughts. 

 

Max hadn’t gone out there to find him. Why would he? The red head and two others had witnessed him, had watched the war rig pull hard and flip, sliding through the salt, and fire from the engine explode in a plume of red chaos. No, the war boy was dead, there was no reason to go searching for him. The determined look in that girl’s eyes as she swore to the others he would follow, tears never streaming down her face. Furiosa herself, so damaged and weak, turning to gaze out into the vast sea of nothing, her organic hand to her heart as the sisters told her of the war boy’s sacrifice. No, Max hadn’t left to search for him. He was dead, dead like so many others. 

He’d found himself at the mess and tangle of machines, fires still blazing in places, hot smoke covering the area. It had taken most of the night to get there and despite the snap and crackle of failing machinery, there was relative silence. Max had slept a few short hours before his insides were eating him- he had to get up, had to go through and salvage what he could, had to move fast. He’d find a car, he’d fix it up and he’d be out of here. He’d leave the Citadel behind him, all this Immortan Joe and his wives business, behind him. This was his best chance to put together something that would last. From all the broken, mangled vehicles he would concoct something real and useful once again. 

 

He’d found him late that first night, after finding a car to start work on. Max had stayed away from the war rig, though he felt pulled to it every time he laid eyes on it. Instead he’d spent the day in back of it, pulling out parts less damaged, rolling bodies out of his way. Nothing lived and some, some had given themselves up after the destruction of their God and their caravan. Many thought they rode for Valhalla, they had no idea that it was just a story an old man told them to keep them compliant. 

Pulling the limp body of the war boy from what was left of the war rig had been a challenge. Max hefted and pulled, twisted and slipped. More than once he’d cut himself, burned himself on this or that. The war boy was of little help, his wounds grievous. He tried though, consciousness coming and going, two words one his lips whenever he found breath, “did they?” Max had ignored it for a time, but the boy stopped helping, grasped his forearm finally and pulled Max down to his face, electric blue eyes staring at him, “did they?” he urged, grip tight. Max grunted in response, a curt nod all the boy needed to use that strength elsewhere. 

It had taken hours, but finally Max had laid the boy out on the ground, out of the heaps of tangled metal. He’d poured water on his face, flushed out the boy’s wounds and wrapped them best he could with what he’d brought. Max had brought along more first aide than he’d realized, his subconscious knowing just what he was out here for even though he’d so vehemently denied it. 

They didn’t leave right away, oh no. That would have been impossible. Max had come out on a bike and the boy didn’t have the strength to even cling to him. Max had thought about tying the boy to him once or twice as the sun beat down on them, their water dwindling and the boy’s bandages seeping. But no, no he needed to put this car together, needed to pack the boy up right so nothing more of him was damaged.

He’d been out three days when the car finally ran. The boy’s strength was still dismal, but he was still alive, still gasping for every breath and eyes still scanning the sky. Max loaded them up, packing the boy into the back, bracing his neck and changing the bandages one last time for the ride. The boy didn’t cry out any more, his face stoic with determination. Max climbed into the driver’s seat and echoed Furisoa’s own words,

“Let’s fang it.” He grinned a little grin, suddenly feeling a bit more like himself than he had in a long time. The car lurched forward and they sped towards the Citadel, to where smiling faces and outstretched arms would greet them, whether they wanted it or not.


End file.
